Letters From The Sky
by Demon In The Box
Summary: He could do all of those things, but he couldn't make her laugh.


**Letters From The Sky**

A sweet, low sound, much like music, rose softly through the air and caught his ear. So unusual, this music, so foreign against the ceaseless backdrop of murmuring cicadas and the creaks and groans of virgin woodland that Bellamy paused, lifting his head to mark the source of the sound, instantly alert, his palm settling over the handle of his throwing axe, body poised to fight.

The moment stretched. Dilated. But there was nothing but silence.

Could have been nothing. Could have been a bird, rather than some sort of signal between circling Grounders. His shoulders loosened a fraction, but only just. He was too paranoid.

Just as he'd convinced himself that it was nothing more than the wind, the sound of the breeze ghosting through the thick canopy overhead the note repeated, and his confusion increased even as his body responded instinctively to the sound. Before he knew himself the corners of his mouth turned upward in a smile, warmth coursing through his chest, an echo of the happiness that this sweet music contained sounding though his body. After a moment, he knew—

_Laughter._

No wonder it had startled him, taken his concentration away from the mundane task of walking the perimeter of The Wall. The rain, wind and all forces of nature seemed determined to take down what they had so painstakingly erected with their own hands, so routine patrols were necessary.

_The Wall_—he scoffed—a grand name for a meager defense against the hostiles that surrounded them. Pitiful. Every day the threats against them grew exponentially, until Bellamy felt the weight of it all like a physical force. The Wall wouldn't hold them out forever. Every time they were careless, and even when they weren't, one of their number was cut down by a speeding arrow, a flying dagger. One strike, and it was over.

That's why no one laughed anymore. Not _true_ laughter, anyway. Not like this, which floated on the air like birdsong, clean and pure and clear. No. Their people made noises that_ resembled_ laughter, but they were really just a punch of breath rooted in fear, or sarcasm. Whatever it took to pretend that they weren't as _fucked _as they all knew they were. That it wouldn't get any worse as the days passed, and winter arrived.

That first night they'd spent under the cold stars with the ground under their feet, secure in the belief that they were alone on Earth, had been the last of their true laughter and excitement in a carnival-like chaos. A chaos that_ he_ had deliberately created, had catalyzed with riotous words and dissenting speeches, only to watch it slip away the moment that beautiful, golden girl opened her mouth to speak of supply runs and setting rules, of order and logic and survival.

He'd been so damn frustrated (_fascinated_) as he watched her gain control of the horde with just a few pointed words. And the killer was that she wasn't even _aware_ of it, what she could do, what she was: a Boadicea in their midst. A warrior with a honeyed voice and blue-green eyes, golden and seemingly fragile, but hard as bedrock beneath, and he didn't dare take his eyes off of her, not if he were to win the contest of wills between them.

But the laughing stopped, it _all _stopped, the fighting and the power plays, when Jasper was speared. When she took out Atom with her own hand. He'd abandoned his plans the moment it became clear that they were _not_ alone and they were _not _welcome. He'd brokered an uneasy alliance with the princess so he could bide his time, look for ways to take control or to gain the upper hand, to topple the princess from her throne, to _end_ his…preoccupation with her. He started out hating her and now—

Bellamy shook his head.

Now he didn't hate her and he didn't want control.

He wanted to _lead_.

To protect and to shelter and to survive. To make her _proud _of him. The corner of his mouth curved in a sardonic smirk. _Now I'm a fucking __**saint**__. All for her. Pussy whipped by the Princess. _And it didn't bother him as much as it should have.

The laugh sounded again, breaking him away from his thoughts of the past, the sound sending a bolt of pleasure through his chest, like an arrow shot. Who could it—

_Clarke_.

The moment the answer came to him, he knew it was right. That was _his_ girl. The only girl in their camp who was capable of producing that low, pleasant alto that skated down his spine like a soft caress. Hadn't he heard that same girl produce a gusting, soft moan, a pleading whimper, a helpless sob of pleasure? Heat pooled in his gut at the memory of her soft body beneath his, over his, moving against his in perfect rhythm.

His feet started to move immediately, without his consent, following the sound and abandoning his task without so much as a twinge of conscience at the fact that he was skipping out on his responsibilities to go and find her. All he knew what that his body responded hard and fast to her bright laughter—which he'd never heard before today—

and he wanted her suddenly in the _worst_ way, wanted to hear her soft cries and whimpers as he took her hard, made her feel _so _good.

But among those now familiar desires was something new—and fragile because it was newly born:

He wanted to make her laugh.

When he reached the main clearing that served as the center of their camp, pulse pounding and his flesh seared from his eager thoughts, he was greeted by the usual hub of noise and activity. All around him people clustered in groups, working, talking, and calling out across the space to each other. They were teasing and cajoling and swapping insults. But not one of them was laughing. No one, expect his Princess.

He paused at the edge of the space, ignoring all the movement and distraction as he scanned the crowd for her bright crown of hair, finding it almost immediately as she moved her head and the sunlight pulsed white through the molten strands.

His Princess_. _He felt his chest tighten. It was hard to breathe. _My beautiful, beautiful girl._

She was standing beside a makeshift worktable where she, Jasper, Monty and Octavia were sorting through various herbs and plants to store for medicinal use. They'd talked about medicinal supplies just that morning. Argued about it, actually. He thought she should concentrate on other things, like _rest_, since she'd hadn't been sleeping much lately. But in the end he'd encouraged her to join them, believing the work would go faster under her direction. And the faster it was done, the faster she could concentrate on taking care of herself.

But now he noticed that there was another person at that table, one that hadn't been there that morning. One that wasn't welcome, in fact.

_Spacewalker_.

Bellamy frowned when he noticed the loose, sluggish grin on Finn's face as he gazed _dreamily_—there was no other word for it—at Clarke, who was moving and speaking with animation, her cheeks slightly pink from the cold, another low chuckle sounding from her mouth and floating through the air. The sound of it pierced his gut and tightened the ache in his groin, and he wanted to hear it again and again, that soft, pleasant sound, when he touched her, when he took her, when she rocked and swayed against him. Only—

_Finn_ had pulled it from her, and he looked drunk, drunk on _her_, and he swayed closer to her body as she continued to speak, oblivious to the effect she was having on him. His arm reached out for her waist, as if to slide and lock over her curves, to anchor him to her. For a moment he nearly succeeded, but Clarke's laughter distracted her from his proximity, and at the last moment, she stepped away, responding to something Octavia said, denying him the prize he sought with his eager, dirty hands. Finn's eyes darkened with disappointment, even as they swept over her willowy form with interest, possession.

Bellamy felt a hot, sharp slide of bile in his throat as his hand returned to the handle of his axe, hovering. He'd always suspected that something had happened between them, but he was never certain of it until _that_ night, their first, when she'd confessed it all to him, naked and still slick against him, like she wanted to unload the burden her secret had become. Though she'd tried to be strong about it, her chin wobbled and her eyes threatened tears, until suddenly they'd spilled over.

And he couldn't _believe_ it. His hard, unbreakable, amazing Princess, crying over a mere _boy_.

_He broke my heart, Bellamy. _Her blue, blue eyes clouded with doubt, betrayal. _I never want to feel that way again. _He'd never heard her speak that way: soft, broken, shattered.

_You __**won't**__, _he'd promised, he'd sworn, his mouth moving in hard, hungry kisses over the slope of her shoulder, into the hollow of her neck as she moaned softly from the heat of his mouth, her arms winding tight around his broad shoulders, her hands sliding over the strong length of his back, their grip turning possessive and eager. He tasted the salt of her tears on her neck, and as he licked them away, he vowed that she would never bathe her skin with their brine again, not if _he_ could help it. _I'll make it better, Baby_, he'd rasped, pushing her down onto his bed, fitting her body to his. _Make you feel __**so**__ good…_

And he had, three times that night, and twice the next day. She'd come so hard she'd shouted herself hoarse, because that's the way it was done. If he couldn't give it to her with his dick he gave it to her with his mouth and hands, as much as she wanted, any way she wanted. If he was good for nothing else, at least there was that.

But maybe there was something more between them now, something more than fucking. He didn't know _what_, but it was theirs and theirs alone. Now that he had Clarke's full attention, complete access to her body, he thought that Spacewalker was out of the picture for good.

Looking at her now, though, at how comfortably, how easily she stood close to Finn, seemed to bask in his attention, Bellamy suddenly wasn't so sure anymore.

For Clarke was smiling, gesturing towards something, and Finn, still with that stupid, dopey smile on his face, was reaching for her again, his hand hovering over her hip, the sweet curve of her ass—

"_**Clarke**_!"

Heads turned at the sudden intrusion of his dark bellow, which startled even himself, wincing as it left his throat. He had no control over the volume, the force of it, all he knew was that he wanted Spacewalker to move _away_ from her.

_Now._

Whether it was the tone or the volume, it worked, and Bellamy felt a savage sort of pleasure as Finn startled at his yell, pulling back from Clarke so suddenly that he staggered and nearly fell backwards before he righted himself.

Bellamy scowled—_if only you'd fallen on your ass—_but it vanished as Clarke responded to the sound of her name, her eyes finding his easily across the distance, the ghost of her laughter lingering still on the edges of her mouth, the corner of her eyes. When she saw him, her laughter fled from her features (a bolt of pain shot through his chest) even as the curl of her lips deepened with a different emotion. Something darker and heavier than laughter.

Pleasure?

Excitement?

_Anticipation_.

"Bellamy," she answered a bit breathlessly, her eyes sweeping fast and hard over the length of his body, his groin, before returning to his eyes, searching there. Swallowing hard before she caught herself, she cleared her throat, strengthening and then flattening her tone for her next words, ever aware of the listening ears and watchful eyes of their audience. "Hey there. Long time, no see. I thought you were walking the perimeter—"

His feet were carrying him forward again almost before he knew himself. They were going someplace private, so he could answer the steadily rising heat of her eyes, the pounding ache in his groin, so he could show her just _**who**_ was allowed to touch her, and _**where**_. Fuck responsibility.

He skirted the edge of the table and reached for her, his large hand circling her bicep with ease, his gesture far more possessive than he'd intended. She fought her response to his touch initially, mindful of the others around them, but standing so close to her, he saw her eyelashes sweep closed at the contact, a gusty sigh part her lips, and he wanted nothing more than to bend his head and claim that perfect mouth in a burning kiss, witnesses be damned. His body even titled forward without his consent, but he managed to stop himself in time.

"You and I need to talk," he managed, and it was almost his normal tone, if a little strained. There were many, many eyes watching them curiously, some of them a little _too_ observant.

Especially a certain pair attached to his little sister.

"Now?" Clarke asked, and she wasn't able to disguise the tremor in her voice, the slight catch of breath that told him she'd felt the electric buzz that arched between the moment they'd touched. He felt her shudder, and his grip on her elbow tightened before but she quickly schooled her features into a mask of neutrality and gently (regretfully) pulled her arm from his grasp, breaking the connection between them. He wanted it back immediately.

"Yes. _Now,"_ he answered through his teeth. In two seconds he was going to scoop her up and throw her over his shoulder and carry her off, fuck it all. With the way she was looking at him from beneath her lashes, her perfect breasts rising and falling with her labored breath, with anticipation, she was burning him alive. He was going to eat her and fuck her and make her scream.

She sighed, gathering her arms closer to her sides, struggling for composure and an air of normalcy. What the hell was she _doing_?

"But I'm kind of busy right _now_, Bellamy."

And just like that, the practiced, steely tones of her "public" voice graced his ears, as if she _weren't_ standing beside him with sex in her eyes, trembling with need. But this had to be an act, too, right? Part of the ridiculous routine they'd adopted to keep what was happening between them a secret.

Wasn't it?

Because suddenly she was looking over at Finn with something like regret shading her eyes.

Suddenly, it was difficult to speak past the metal-like lock of his jaw, and he fought to keep his hands away from her, from dragging her away all these people. From _him_. He couldn't seem to think past the need thrumming through his veins.

"Busy huh? It's nothing that can't wait," he practically snarled; his grip returned to her upper arm and tightened possessively hold over her bicep. "Let's _go, _Clarke—"

"But I've g-got," she protested, just before he felt her sharp intake of breath, heard the stutter in her speech at the precise moment when she met his dark gaze. For an endless stretch, they gazed heatedly at each other, everything else falling away, and he put his need into his eyes as he raked them over her body with a pointed and undisguised hunger. A beat later, her pink mouth opened in a soundless _oh_ of discovery. There was no mistaking what he wanted from her, what she now wanted from him.

"Oh…_okay_," she added a moment later with a breathy rasp, the pink of her blush deepening from more than the cold. She spared Octavia a hurried glance, barely able to conceal the rising excitement in her flushed face, her heavy breathing. "Think you can take it from here?" She spoke the words in a rush, as if she were suddenly impatient to dispense with formalities and leave with all due haste.

Octavia nodded quickly, soberly, sparing her brother a brief, knowing, glance, which he didn't notice, focused as he was on Clarke. Octavia shook her head once more, an odd combination of resignation and fear washing over her striking face as she glanced around at the sea of faces surrounding them. Whatever they thought was a secret between them, wouldn't be for much longer. Not after this.

"But Clarke," Monty started, looking between Bellamy and Clarke with confusion, utterly clueless, "I thought we we're going to—_**Ow**_!"

He grunted when Octavia struck him just below his ribs with a sharp jab of her fingers, just barely shaking her head in the negative, struggling to keep her features neutral.

"We got it covered," she assured Clarke, throwing Monty a quelling look, and locking eyes with Jasper for a beat before returning to her sorting with exaggerated indifference, as if nothing were amiss. Monty frowned, drew breath to form another protest only to flinch when Jasper poked his _other_ side. Monty shrugged, frowning at the abuse, but stepped back to the table as well, dropping the matter at once.

Bellamy spared them all a glance and a slight downturn of his brow, vaguely aware that something important had just been exchanged between them, but he was finding it hard to care. Not when he couldn't think straight, when he couldn't think beyond the girl that trembled in his grasp. He looked at his sister, frowning slightly at her occupied, oblivious air. _Too_ oblivious. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

But it could wait.

He stepped back from Clarke, extending his arm forward in a classic _after you_ gesture, and she stepped forward, Bellamy following immediately afterward, already breathing hard, flesh on fire, when suddenly—

"_Clarke_?"

Finn. Calling after her.

_What the ever-loving fuck?_

"Hey…so we'll talk later? You know, about the books? Maybe tonight after supper?"

Bellamy's jaw tightened further as he watched Clarke pause, infuriated that Spacewalker was even capable of commanding her attention just enough to cause her to slow her steps, to turn on her heel and flash him a look of warm (_**what**_?) indulgence as she answered him.

"Books?" She frowned for a second before he expression cleared, remembering something they'd obviously spoken of before. Her shoulders lifted suddenly in a chuckle, and another laugh, full, low, and rich, rose from her lips. Standing this close to her, so near the sound, Bellamy felt it wash over him like rain.

Her laughter _transformed_ her, erasing the lines of care and worry from her face, softening the frown that creased her brow, lightening her eyes to a soft, clear blue, like a cloudless summer sky.

_Beautiful…_

"Oh _yeah_," she was answering Finn, the warmth of her laughter bending and curving her lips in a perfect bow. "The _books_." She snorted. Some sort of secret look passed between them, and they both said "Moby _Dick_!" in perfect synchronicity, before laughing together at some private joke, their laughter twining together in a practiced, easy harmony.

Bellamy allowed himself a moment to imagine what it would be like to see his throwing knife embed itself right between Spacewalker's eyes.

"So, think about it, huh? Maybe after supper?" Finn was asking, that same hopeful, longing expression in his dark eyes, longing for Clarke, _his_ Clarke, like he stood a chance in _hell_—

"She's busy," Bellamy spat, at this point no longer caring what he looked or sounded like, pulling Clarke _away_ from the table, from Spacewalker, from the whole goddamned camp before he lost his mind, only vaguely aware that Clarke stumbled for a moment before righting herself and picking up speed, following after him.

Guilt stabbed through him.

"Sorry," he bit out from the side of his mouth, glancing over at her to meet his eyes. He _never_ wanted to hurt her, in _any_ way, even with something as trivial as a stumble over hard ground. He gentled his grip on her arm, smoothed over her elbow in a gentle caress. "Sorry, Princess."

"It's okay," she answered immediately, and the pain in his chest lightened just a little, but not enough as he thought again of her laughter, her warm, tender gaze as she looked back at _him_. She'd never looked at him that way…

As they drew away from the center of camp she cast a glance at his profile, concern darkening her eyes, which he missed, thinking only of placing one foot in front of the other. Fucking Spacewalker.

But as they reached the far corner of the drop ship, concealed from watchful eyes at last, that concern was replaced with need as her eyes swept over his tall, lean form, lingering on the graceful cut of his muscular legs, his whipcord waist, his broad, wide back.

"Bellamy," she cried out, her voice breaking with hunger, with lust, as she dug her heels into the soft soil in order to slow his focused, determined steps.

He halted, reacting to her strong grip. Why Finn and not him? "_What_?"

She grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him against the edge of the dropship, winding her hands in his hair and slamming her lips to his, hard, desperate, their teeth clacking together for a moment before she tilted her head and swept her tongue feverishly over his bottom lip and into his mouth, mewling and pleading little noises rumbling against his lips as she tasted him, devoured him.

One strong arm curved and locked around her waist, lifting her up and pulling her tight against him, until those perfect breasts were flattened against his chest, her hard nipples scraping his skin through the thin fabric of his worn shirt. He groaned into her mouth, pressing her closer as she continued to writhe and grind against him. His other arm dipped and locked over the flare of her hip, his large hand sweeping over the sweet curve of her ass and gripping it tight in his hand, squeezing and kneading her supple flesh as her tongue slipped and tangled with his in an endless dance.

Her nudged a knee between her thighs and her legs opened to his touch. He hooked his arms under her legs and pulled her up and hard against his throbbing cock as she locked her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his legs, slipping and sliding over his ass as she rocked desperately against the hard length of him, leaking and straining in his pants, the head of his cock peaking out from the top of his partially open fly, the loose button popping free the moment they started to grin and rock together.

"God…_**god**__…Bellamy. Oh god. I couldn't stop thinking about you all morning," _Clarke whispered frantically against his mouth, her voice low and impossibly heated, a tight, rasping whine as her lips traced the line of his jaw, the hollow of his neck, nipping and laving at his heated skin. "_I could still feel it—what you did to me—like you were __**still **__inside me—oh GOD."_

She was hot and wet against him, and he could almost feel the outline of her tight pussy aligned with the hard, jutting edge of his straining cock. He grunted and snapped his hips against her, hard, pulling a sharper whine from her lips and he rocked and slammed his hips into her seeking heat. And fuck, it felt _so_ good, even through their goddamned clothes.

He tore his mouth away from her neck and dropped it to her breast, mouthing her nipple through her shirt, sucking it hard and into his mouth before letting it go with a pop, the fabric dark and wet with his spit, her nipple fat and straining against the barrier of cloth.

"Wanted to _fuck_ you all morning," he answered back, reaching between them to pop open the fly of her cargos, yanking down the zipper with sharp, impatient tug before he plunged two fingers without preamble inside her wet heat. She was so wet and slick and slippery that his fingers slid inside her with ease, but still—

"Shit, baby, did I hurt you?" His fingers stilled, buried deep, deep inside her, the tight muscle of her walls grasping at the intrusion, clamping down on him.

"_B-bellamy_—"

"Did I hurt you?" he begged, pressing hot kisses to the edge of her lips, the line of her jaw, the curve of her shoulder. "Fuck, baby, _tell_ me—"

She was sobbing, rocking her hips against his hand and trying to generate the friction she needed, her head thrown back and her eyes fused tightly closed, her hair falling in a golden curtain over his forearms as he braced her against him.

"_Clarke_—"

"No—_**no**_—oh please, Bellamy, _please_ touch me, please—"

Only then he relented, because he would never, _ever_ hurt her, and she sobbed in relief as he finally started to plunge and dip and twist his fingers inside her, fucking her pussy with the firm, steady thrusts of his strong fingers. She rocked above him in counterpoint, her breasts bouncing and shaking with her sharp movements.

He pulled his mouth away from her clothed shoulder. Slowed the pace of his fingers. She moaned in protest.

"Show me your tits, Clarke—" he commanded, scraping his teeth over a fat nipple and swiping it with the flat of his tongue. "Pick up your shirt." She was raising her head to look at him, opening her eyes to meet his heated gaze before she nodded once, another mournful sob tearing from her throat at the look in his eyes, the promise embedded there.

She snaked an arm between them, gripped the hem of her shirt with one hand and raked it up and over her breasts, pulling her shirt and bra towards her collarbone, only managing with this haphazard maneuver to free one pale, fat mound to his waiting mouth, but it was enough. He bent and latched on to her swollen nipple, tugging and pulling at the taut flesh and rolling it in his mouth before he pulled away to tease it with the very tip of his mobile, skillful tongue, whipping it back and forth in fast, relentless rhythm, resuming the use of his fingers in her hot and slippery core.

She keened and her head feel back once more, her whole upper body falling back in his embrace, confident that his thick, strong arm would hold her secure, that she wouldn't fall from his tight, sure grip around her back. One more plunge and twist and the gentle scrap of his fingers curling upward towards the top wall of her pussy and she shuddered and spasmed above him, once, twice, three times, the sloppy jerk of her hips and the tight, clenching heat of her pussy on his thick fingers the only indication of her orgasm as it tore through her, her mouth hanging opening and closing in a silent scream.

Before the last wave rocked through her, Bellamy shifted them and turned her around until her back was to the dropship wall. He pressed her tight and hard against the cold metallic surface and quickly tugged down her cargos and her panties to her mid thigh, barely allowing her a moment to collect herself before he opened his fly to thrust himself inside her in one hard, swift jab until he bottomed out completely, his balls grinding tight against her as he seated himself deep within her.

She was gasping, panting, her gaze dulled and drugged and wondrous as he started to thrust hard and tight against her, her back knocking dully against the edge of the dropship wall.

"You're _mine_, Clarke," he growled suddenly, gripping her neck and pulling her eyes toward him, forcing her to meet his gaze, to meet the heat and desire and unmistakable claim in his eyes. His thrust grew more deliberate, and deep. He pulled out almost completely, almost to the very tip, before he plunged inside her again, seating himself so deeply and at so steep an angle that she bounced upward from the force of it.

"_**Mine**_." He repeated, now following each declaration, each spoken word with a hard thrust and tight swivel of his hips, rotating the length of his cock inside her, over and over.

"Mine…you _got _it?!" He was talking quickly now, as it was all releasing in a rush. "He can't fucking t-touch you again—he'll _**n-never**_ touch you again—or I'll—I'll…oh fuck, fuck fuck—I'll—"

He bent his head over her shoulder, the motion of his hips desperate and erratic against her.

"Bellamy—"

He gasped, struggling for breath, he could barely hold back now. "Promise me, baby—_promise_ me—_never again_."

He gently bent her head forward, towards their joined bodies. "Watch me fuck you, Clarke. Watch. You gotta promise me—please…"

Was he begging? She was writhing and rolling against him, nearing a second orgasm as he worked himself inside her, watching with rapt eyes and they struggled and moved together.

"I prom—oh…oh.." she stopped to take a deep breath, and then continued, "I promise, baby, I promise, _I promise, I promise IpromiseIpromise!" _She screamed, and he followed her over the edge.

Later that night, as he held her snug against him, tracing and retracing the gentle dip of her flat belly, the flare of her waist, and the sweet, rounded curve of her breasts, he paused in his caress, taking in the slack features of her peaceful, sleeping face.

She never looked at _him_ that way. Never laughed for him. He could make he cry, and sob, and scream, and squeal. He could make her feel so good in so many ways—

His fingers reached up to trace the curve of her lips. He pushed at the corners of her mouth, bending her lips into a false smile, as he imagined her bright, arching laughter. When he pulled his hand away, her mouth fell slack.

He could do all of those things, but he couldn't make her laugh.


End file.
